


Victims of Circumstance - 5/20 – Warnings

by motsureru



Series: Victims of Circumstance [5]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-16
Updated: 2008-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Season 1 and Season 2. This is a <b><span>sequel</span> </b>to <i>Any Other Night</i>, which is a <b><span>sequel</span></b> to <i>Broken Glass. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Victims of Circumstance - 5/20 – Warnings

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous amount of thanks to [](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/), who edits my commas and makes me happy doing it. <3

**Teaser:** _Sylar could be a patient man. For a little while longer.  
_

  
 .5 Warnings

 

What might have been a pleasant waking was one riddled with the high-pitched ring tone Sylar had come to hate with a striking ferocity. Though he was never fond of its tone, he had begun to hate it more once he and Mohinder regularly shared a bed. The unfolding of events was always the same: the phone rang and injury ensued.

Mohinder’s alarm from the phone began with the ring, complicated by the vibration of the item in his pants pocket. He jerked too quickly— an action that sent his skull into the side of Sylar’s face, colliding abruptly with his cheek bone. Sylar gave a startled hiss, and Mohinder sat up fully, groping for the device and squinting against the morning light. Finally he pulled out the phone and flipped it open, shoving it beneath his mess of curls. 

“Hello?” he spoke, words as bleary as his sight.

“Suresh? It’s Bennet. Can you talk?”

Mohinder let out a sleepy sigh and hung his head, pulling his legs towards himself and then off of the bed to sit up. He could see now that he’d fallen asleep in his clothes from the night before, in Sylar’s bed, and he felt stiff, as though he hadn’t slept at all. “Do you have any idea what time it is? _Time difference_ , Bennet. _Time difference._ ”

“It’s a perfectly decent hour in California,” Bennet added, highlighting his apathy for Mohinder’s plight. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. This is important. Do you have a few minutes in private?”

Mohinder rubbed his face, eyes closed. “Yes, I do. Talk.”

Sitting up in bed as well, Sylar rubbed his certainly bruising cheek where Mohinder’s head had struck him, blinking away the sand in his eyes as he listened to Bennet’s tiny voice in the receiver. He leaned back on a palm, reaching over to touch Mohinder’s back, to remind him that he was listening, too.

“The Haitian and I are going to be working on a project for a while. We may be traveling around the country, or even out of it. There’s a series of paintings by Isaac Mendez that we need to get our hands on.”

Mohinder frowned at that, sitting up a little straighter. “Isaac Mendez? He’s been dead for a while, now.”

Sylar’s ears perked and he scooted closer to Mohinder. Oh yes, Isaac Mendez was dead. Sylar was very well-informed of all the paintings that had been left in Isaac’s loft after his untimely demise. That Bennet had something new to offer in the way of Mendez information was very interesting indeed.

“Obviously, he’s dead. But the series of paintings I’m talking about was painted before he knew what he could do and then bought by the Company. Probably Linderman, though I didn’t know it at the time. Some of the paintings were split up to ensure the safety of whatever they illustrated, and the first of eight was given to me.” Bennet adjusted the glasses on his face, staring at the computer screen in his office. He had uploaded a picture of the painting last night, and once more he was gazing at its contents.

“Well,” Mohinder began, giving a small glance to the side when he felt Sylar’s hands on his shoulders, massaging from behind to tempt his tension away. “What’s in the first one, then?”

“A man getting captured. A man by the name of Adam Monroe. Have you heard of him?”

“No.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” Bennet was a lucky man not to see the sour expression on Mohinder’s face. “Adam Monroe is a very powerful man. A healer. And one of the first people to start this company. This painting shows him being captured.”

Mohinder tilted his head, keeping relaxed from Sylar’s distracting touch. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, by all accounts he should still be locked up in the Company’s basement. He hasn’t escaped yet. Or ever. The questions are why and how, and why would it be so important that Isaac Mendez’s paintings had to reveal it? When the Company gave me this painting years ago, I didn’t know who Adam Monroe was, so I stored it away without a second thought. I didn’t know what sort of evil he had been capable of. He wanted to let loose the virus, Suresh.”

Mohinder frowned deeply at that. “What do you mean, ‘let loose the virus’? The virus isn’t… my sister and Molly had the virus naturally, the Company didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Not that strain,” Bennet corrected him, voice grave. “But there are others, more deadly ones, which the Company has engineered from the first. That’s why the Haitian and I need to find the rest of these paintings. He’ll be remaining with the Company undercover.If Monroe makes it out of the Company’s holding cell, there’s a chance we’ll need your blood to work with the consequences.”

“That’s an incredibly dangerous undertaking,” Mohinder began, thinking of all the possible ways working with an under-researched virus could go wrong. He let out a little frustrated noise under his breath, pausing when he felt Sylar move his curls aside to press his lips to the back of Mohinder’s neck. He imagined it was meant to calm him, but this was hardly the time. The kiss earned Sylar an elbow in the ribs. There was silence on the other end as Bennet heard the resulting grunt.

“Suresh?”

“—Yes, sorry. You don’t think the Company would be stupid enough to unleash the virus without any sort of backup plan, though, do you?”

“I’m in no position now to judge what the Company will and won’t do. But we’ll be working to make you fully aware of the situation.”

Mohinder nodded to himself. “I told you before: my top priority is my research. And I’ve just acquired a lab, so I can get right to it. I plan to continue mapping DNA sequences as I was before, but it will be on the side. This lab wants me to research the virus; there’s been a case in India I’m looking into. If you need to contact me, you can, but don’t expect me to come running if you need someone to hunt down these paintings or get an in with the Company.”

Bennet frowned at that. “You’ve already made yourself clear, Suresh. I just want to keep you updated on the situation. I expect you to contact me if I don’t contact you, and I’ll let you know if we find anything of interest. I’d like to think that the Company hasn’t been working on its viral research, but with no way to tell when this painting is supposed to be, Adam’s escape, for even the briefest of time, could be disastrous.”

“I imagine it would be,” Mohinder continued. Sylar was quietly kissing at his neck again, and this time Mohinder chose not to injure him for the sake of completing this call without provoking Bennet. “Hopefully with a lab and a virologist on hand, I’ll be able to find out something conclusive of my own that could help you.” 

“Is this a private lab? Or a company lab? You’re not working for someone are you? It’s not safe.” Bennet warned the obvious.

“I’m going to work for Catalyst Laboratories. I’ll be in France, shortly, at one of their branch labs,” Mohinder replied. He felt Sylar’s kisses stop, and raised an eyebrow as he turned around to look at the man. Sylar raised one right back at him.

“I haven’t heard of them. That’s a good thing. But don’t let your guard down. Let me know if anything suspicious happens, and I’ll do what I can. The Haitian will tell us if anything’s gone wrong from the inside. I think it’s likely that the Company has something big in the works. If so, we’ll stop it,” Bennet reaffirmed, nodding to himself as though that made his statement safer to make.

“I appreciate your calling me.” 

“Keep in touch.” With that, Bennet’s end went dead.

Mohinder closed his phone with a snap and tossed it to the edge of the bed. Never mind mapping the genetic code of people with abilities; apparently the world was telling him that the virus was his main concern now. Three instances in children and an apparent threat that the Company had a viral strain in manufacturing was certainly enough to sway Mohinder’s focus. 

“France, huh?” Sylar’s voice sounded before Mohinder felt an arm wrap around his chest, pull him back and push him to the mattress. The ceiling spun along with his balance for a moment and then Mohinder saw Sylar crawl to hover atop him, his dark eyes peering down from above. Sylar knelt with arms poised on either side of Mohinder’s ears, looking rather casual even in his boxers while Mohinder was fully dressed from the night before.

“Yes, France. We’re going there. Tomorrow. I’m going to work in a lab in Orléans.” Mohinder rest his hands against Sylar’s thighs, as though a willing touch made him not to feel like trapped prey. “I was going to tell you last night, but…”

“You fell asleep,” Sylar interjected, lifting a hand to twirl one of Mohinder’s curls around his finger. He let a moment pass before he finally spoke. “I don’t know any French.”

“I can teach you.” Mohinder smiled.

Sylar raised an eyebrow, and both of his hands moved this time, starting to undo the top buttons to Mohinder’s pale striped shirt. “You know French?”

“And Tamil, and Hindi, and, oh yes, English. I’m not an uneducated man, you know. Stop that.” Mohinder batted at Sylar’s hands, but the man continued, leaning down to press his lips to the center of Mohinder’s chest, pulling open the pale fabric to reveal dark skin. 

“So you can teach me in three new languages how to say ‘Take off your clothes. Now.’?” the man inquired, unbuttoning the bottom closure and parting the fabric completely.

Mohinder felt his skin prickling as Sylar began to kiss downward, unable to help but think every time of the thrill the man must get from hearing the blood begin to rush through his body. “Stop, Sylar. I’ve really got to… get showered and change-” Mohinder’s breath caught as Sylar nipped the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, right above his belt. He reached a hand down and into Sylar’s hair to push him back, though it seemed like a push towards his destination. “I… I’m serious, I-”

“Need to relax.” Sylar insisted, licking tenderly the small bite mark he’d made and letting his hands begin to undo Mohinder’s belt. He heard Mohinder swallow, and did not need his ability to hear Mohinder’s breath beginning to escape his lips shallowly. Sylar smiled to himself as he unzipped the man, sliding his hands around either side the hips to his pants to urge the fabric away. Mohinder’s fingers tightened in his black hair, and Sylar seemed pleased at how Mohinder was hardening inside his boxers.

“Mohinder, Gabriel, breakfast!”

Anjali’s voice came with a loud knock on the door. 

The fingers in Sylar’s hair pulled sharply, and Sylar gnashed his teeth against a cry of pain, sitting up. Unfortunate as the interruption was, Sylar had to admit that the horrified look on Mohinder’s face was priceless. Mohinder released Sylar and shoved him back, sitting up quickly.

“Be there soon, Mother!” he called out automatically, voice uneasy as he scrambled out of the bed. Mohinder was swiftly on his feet, zipping up his pants in haste. Sylar merely rolled over onto his back, resting a hand on his chest with a sigh. He listened as her footsteps shuffled away, and watched as Mohinder began buttoning his shirt. 

“Breakfast could wait fifteen minutes,” he complained idly.

Mohinder stared over at the door for a second, something dawning on him, and then promptly shot his eyes back to Sylar. “How did she know I would be in here?!” he asked, aghast.

Sylar gave a small shrug of his shoulders, drumming his fingers against his chest casually. “You’re a bad liar, I suppose.”

Mohinder’s gaze turned into a glare. “You didn’t _tell_ her, did you?”

Sylar held up his hands innocently. “I didn’t have to tell her a thing. She guessed all on her own. I can’t lie to your mother. Could you?” His tone was lightly teasing, but Mohinder did not seem amused.

Mohinder narrowed his eyes at the man, a hand on his hip. “Get dressed, she’s waiting,” he said firmly, choosing to dismiss the situation instead of cause a fight. With that, he turned around, exiting the room and leaving Sylar sprawled upon the bed and unsatisfied. 

Nevertheless, Sylar merely chuckled to himself at the situation. After last night and talking to Mohinder’s mother, he opted to dismiss the situation as well, rather than provoke Mohinder into thinking the situation was more serious than he felt it was. Humor or a touch of sarcasm could work well to his advantage, he realized, if he found the right niche to use it in.

The humor, however, would not satiate him. Sylar took a deep breath, pursing his lips as he let his mind drift for a moment. He thought about the last time they’d had sex. It seemed like long ago, as it had been in a different country, but Sylar knew he shouldn’t count days or times, make himself out to be a sexually starved younger man whose needs were not being met. In spite of his unwillingness to dwell on the topic in his mind, he had, however, been thinking about the last time they had been in a position much like the one now compromised by motherly care. 

It had happened after an evening on the town in London: they spent the day touring and the night out at a pub or two Mohinder had known from his university days. Neither of them intended on getting as drunk as they did, merely having a glass or two to satisfy a bit of nostalgia on Mohinder’s part. A small alcohol buzz for Mohinder had been fairly drunk for Sylar, who had never had more than a glass of wine on holidays, and the night ended with some inebriated stumbling back to the hotel.

Sylar remembered feeling positively high on the night’s activities, from hearing Mohinder laugh so much and seeing him smile as widely as he had that first day with Zane Taylor. Sylar hardly cared when Mohinder had him suddenly pinned against their hotel room door, mouth to his throat. Sylar wasn’t thinking much of anything at that point, other than how nice Mohinder’s hair smelled, or how the pressure of a leg between his was making his blood rise. Soon Mohinder was pulling off his shirt, letting his mouth move downward in open, wet kisses…

Of course Sylar was no fool to things sexual; he may not have slept with anyone before Mohinder, but he knew how the process worked and how normal people danced around the act with motions of foreplay. However, he had never experienced such things himself, and even after he’d slept with Mohinder several times, the finer points of exploring those actions had never really been a priority when moments leading to sex came to pass between them.

For that reason Sylar had nearly died of shock when Mohinder’s mouth dipped lower and the man was on his knees, teaching Sylar exactly what certain foreplay entailed. It was lucky for them both that they were rather drunk: Sylar had been able to swallow his surprise, and Mohinder had been able to swallow his lingering discomfort at taking initiative. Sylar doubted very much afterwards that Mohinder could have brought himself to surrender that sort of intimacy or show that sort of enthusiasm under less intoxicated circumstances.

Today’s adventure had been the victim of poor timing, Sylar assessed. Unfortunate mother timing. This experience wasn’t so much about returning the favor as it was about experimenting; Sylar wanted to play that game himself, push Mohinder’s body further, see what other control, sounds, or expressions the man might surrender. Sylar wanted to try it personally, and, more importantly, master the knowledge of something else about Mohinder. The problem was that Mohinder almost never overtly expressed his desires. Either Sylar took command and created a mood, or none was to be had, much of the time. That was fine, Sylar enjoyed the hunt, but it left him striking out many times as well, subject to Mohinder’s whims. 

Sitting up with a sigh, Sylar found himself sure that he wouldn’t get the chance to experiment with Mohinder while they were still in India. The type of connection they deepened here would not be sexual. That was something Sylar hid his anxiousness over as best he could; at times their emotional connection felt like it operated out of his parameters, in unknown territory. But Sylar could rest assured, he thought, that in France, where they would actually get the chance to live together, there would be many opportunities within his preferences to come. Sylar could be a patient man. For a little while longer.

 

 

The hallway was long, white, bland. It was as lifeless and commanding as any of the Primatech buildings had been in the past, and for this reason the Haitian should have felt right at home within its walls. Luckily for him, stoicism was his greatest ability, and any discomfort he felt was squelched immediately by the impassive demeanor which he projected to all around him. As he strolled down the hall, Bennet in the back of his mind, the Haitian questioned how deeply and thoroughly he would have to infiltrate the Company’s new system before the two of them saw any results. 

Stopping at the office door that read ‘Bishop’ in plain gold text against a deep oak setting, the Haitian knocked once. 

When Bob opened the door, the Haitian stepped aside. “How good of you to join me. We have something important to discuss today,” the man said, straightening out his gray suit jacket. Stepping out, he shut the door behind them, beginning down the hall and expecting the Haitian to follow.

“As you’re aware, we’ve had Peter Petrelli under our watch for over two months now. It is of the utmost importance that we keep him where he is and keep him stable, under control.” Bob lead the Haitian down another hall, towards the holding cell area. He adjusted the glasses on his face, as if anticipating looking in the windows at the Company’s caged animals. They took the stairs down.

“I’ve been allowing Elle the opportunity to oversee his care; it keeps her busy, and frankly during dire times like these, when our business is of the greatest importance, we can’t have any loose cannons.” Down another hallway they went, until finally the window into Peter’s cell stood before them, and each man, side by side, looked in on his unexciting world. “You’re a valuable member of the company. You’re one of the best we have for bringing people in. But I want you to keep an eye on this one for a little while. Elle has been spending a lot of time down here… and right now Peter Petrelli is somebody we can’t afford to lose. You’ll be sticking by Elle for a while. Do you understand?”

The Haitian nodded, gazing in on Peter’s four walls, his new life. His self-induced exile the Company had gradually made involuntary. 

“Good. Keep an eye on them.” Bob clapped a hand on the Haitian’s shoulder and turned away. He walked the ten feet it took to look in the next room, at Adam Monroe, and gave a mirthless smile. Then the man was on his way.

Long after he heard Bob’s footsteps disappeared, the Haitian continued to stare at Peter Petrelli’s form, taking in the sight of the joyless man lying on his side in bed. After KirbyPlaza, the Haitian had made an important decision: Bennet would not know of Petrelli’s survival. It was dangerous enough that the Company had their hands on him, but as it was at least the pills and the cell would keep a man of his abilities at bay and out of trouble. If Bennet knew Peter Petrelli was still alive, he would most certainly want to recruit him for their cause, to turn the easily influenced young man into a soldier of resistance against the Company. And though they had similar goals, the Haitian knew well enough after KirbyPlaza that Peter Petrelli was not a force to be toyed with by driven men. He was a naive weapon the Haitian was unwilling to see used for either side. All he wanted was for Peter to remain where he was, in a cell, powerless, for as long as they could manage. Until the time was right.

“Come to watch the show, Happy?” Elle’s perky, sarcastic voice sounded from behind.

The Haitian glanced over to see the girl approaching with a cup of pills in her hand and a cup of water in the other, dressed nicely in a black skirt and deep blue blouse. Elle dressed to impress, to attract attention as she always did. The Haitian merely let his gaze follow her until she reached the door, and then he turned away to return down the hall he had come. The situation was becoming dire, indeed.


End file.
